


The Cost of Memory

by Ellynne



Series: Belle's Grandmother, Curupira [5]
Category: Beastmaster (TV), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold implied in the future, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellynne/pseuds/Ellynne
Summary: When Colette dies in childbirth, Curupira makes another deal with Rumplestiltskin.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: Belle's Grandmother, Curupira [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1381189
Comments: 9
Kudos: 4





	The Cost of Memory

Once upon a time.

That’s how all good stories should begin, don’t you agree?

Once upon a time there was a quiet, shy, _careful_ , girl named Colette. From her mother, she had inherited an ancient library full of rare books. From her father, she had inherited a claim to a not far-enough-away throne, the resolve not to touch it, and enemies who didn’t trust her to stay resolved (or to be used as a pawn by _their_ enemies, resolved or not).

She had also, through no fault of her own, attracted the attention of meddlesome imp who had, in turn, seen to it she attracted the attention of the demon of the forests, Curupira. The demon, in her own way, cared for her. When the girl’s enemies sent assassins, Curupira was ready to carry her off to the forest for safety or to simply slaughter her enemies. 

The imp, who had plans of his own, talked her into a different plan. Curupira still dealt with an assassin or two. But, instead of wiping out a few royal families, imp and demon retrieved a single, garnet red pearl, grown from a seed of Curupira’s blood. They gave it to the girl, letting the gem take root in her blood, binding her to Curupira and giving her power to speak to beasts, a little gift to help her survive.

The girl was a scholar, not a warrior. She didn’t learn how to fight like a tiger or strike like a snake. But, she spoke to all the horses in the king’s stables and the hounds in his kennels. The birds of the air told her their secrets. 

Curupira took steps of her own. Beasts might chatter with the girl and know better than to harm her, but they quickly forgot anything a human had to say. They remembered everything Curupira told them. If the imp’s trickery had failed and another assassin came for the girl, crows would have listened to his secret meetings and cats would prowl his rooms, searching for poison and hidden blades

The girl, like the beasts, had other things to think of, not that Curupira saw any sense in it. When the girl spoke to animals, she spoke most frequently with the horse, hound, and hawk of a young squire, the younger son of a cadet house. She prattled to Curupira about what they told her and was immensely pleased that his beasts liked the young squire nearly as much as she did (Curupira knew enough about humans to know rolling her eyes would only make things worse, but it wasn’t easy).

When the young squire was knighted and rode to war with the king—a border skirmish involving a few raiders, but also a way for the king to let his more powerful neighbors know he would defend what was his–the girl travelled with them, tending the messenger doves. She also watched through the doves eyes when they flew as well as the eyes of other birds, robins, larks, carrion crows. It was one of the crows who let her see the trap that was being set. This was more than the simple skirmish the king expected. Old enemies saw the chance to lure him out and strike a telling blow.

It might have worked, too. Even the swiftest of her messenger doves could not have arrived in time, though she still sent them. But the crow flew on ahead to Sir Maurice, her young knight, and he cawed out the single word she gave him. “ _Trap._ ”

When Maurice only stared at the bird, he flew up, circling in the direction where the enemy waited, then flew back. “ _Trap,_ ” he cawed again.

Maurice continued to stare.

The crow gave him a look of frustrated disgust and tried again. “ _Colette._ ”

Maurice gathered his men and rode out, saving the king’s life. Somewhere in the midst of the brief, chaotic fight, the messenger doves arrived, and the king never questioned how Maurice had known to come. For his bravery in battle, he made Maurice lord of the Marchlands and gave him custody of a castle along the river that marked their border, an important point for both defense and trade.

More importantly, it was on the border on the opposite side of the kingdom, away from the two realms that spent too much time thinking of a young girl with a troubling bloodline. They thought even less of her once she married Lord Maurice. He might be a hero and the king’s trusted defender, but his family was nothing. He was as lowborn as a gentleman could be and still _be_ a gentleman. None of the ancient families would rally to put the wife of a mere border guard on their throne. 

Besides, the Marchland’s castle had high, thick walls and guards known for their loyalty to Maurice. They trusted him with their lives and the lives of their families, who sheltered there. Assassins would be found out and an attack would likely fail. Worse, a failed attack would point back to them. The king of Avonlea would demand justice and other lords would be only too happy to support him.

Or so the lords of the North and South Kingdoms had decided once a certain imp, with a careful balance of hinted promises and honeyed threats, was done whispering in their ears.

So, the beginning of Lord Maurice’s stewardship went well. If anyone found it odd how quickly he became aware of robbers and highwaymen trying to trouble anyone traveling in his lands—as if he were a bird in the sky, able to see them coming—it was only to call him a canny one and nod approvingly. The wisdom of his lady was also much spoken of as was her library. There were many scholars willing to make the journey along the merchant roads to see it. While it was true they found her very learned—she had read all the books and manuscripts she had inherited—it was the interest she showed in their own studies that won them over (she made meticulous notes of everything she learned, adding them to her collection).

The common people were also much impressed with her. She was renowned for her ability to recognize maladies in any beast and (more to the point) knew how to cure them. She knew how to train them, too. Half-feral cats were known to behave themselves in her presence.

When word came that she and Lord Maurice were expecting an heir, everyone in his lands rejoiced. Even the king sent a private note expressing his great pleasure. The lords of the North and South stoically ignored the matter and, if pressed, said they didn’t care. But, the imp’s work had born fruit. At least some of them, so it was rumored, were telling the truth.

And then she died.

The mortal midwife did not have the power to save her. Curupira’s power was of a different sort, and she came too late. The imp. . . .

The imp had the gift of foretelling. He had seen the future with Colette at her child’s side. He had _known_ she would live. From the moment she had swallowed the blood pearl, that future had been inevitable. Oh, he knew the dangers of birth, had been called to many a desperate childbed when all other hope was lost. Yet, with Colette, he had been certain of her safety. By the time he knew how wrong he was, he could not reach her, not in time.

Demons are chancy parents. It is rare that they even have children. Those they do are strong and hardy, tormenting serpents and riding on tigers backs. Their mothers do not fear for them.

Curupira had not expected to love the girl she had taken under her wing. She had not expected her to matter more than any of the other human lives she saw constantly flickering into their brief moment of light before sputtering out into darkness. She had not expected to care. Caring, she had not expected to be hurt.

But, Colette was dead.

And she still heard her.

The imp, in his irritating way, understood before she did. Curupira’s beastmasters, the ones she gave the power to speak to beasts, linked their souls to hers. The thread was feather light, strong enough she could catch and hold them for a few moments, long enough to let the gift pass into them.

Colette had swallowed a small jewel born of Curupira’s blood, nurtured on healing and loss in the depths of a magic lake. It had become part of her. Even in death, the two were still bound.

It would fade, _was_ fading. The bond would break. Colette’s soul would pass away.

_Unless._

The imp said it with his mad grin, razor teeth bared. He had felt shock, even grief (not that he would say so). He had, though Colette did not know it, watched over her from the hour of her birth, manipulated her, toyed with her—and failed her. For all his games, he had shielded and protected her.

Except he hadn’t. And she died.

Now, that pain was fading away. Or could be locked away, trapped in dark corners of his mind with other memories best not spoken of. He had other things to think on.

The bargain was quickly made, as it had to be. The imp was a spinner, a weaver of masterful skill. He knew how to strengthen the fraying thread between mortal and monster.

There was a price. There was always a price. Curupira had seen the shock in the imp’s eyes when they found Colette. She knew his grief was real. But, that didn’t mean she was foolish enough to trust him. She knew what she wanted came at a high cost, but that didn’t mean she meant to imp to profit by it.

To keep Colette, this human who was almost her child, and to raise her child in turn, Curupira must be Colette. Or close enough for the magic to work. 

The imp cast his spells. She took on the shape of a mortal body. Even her strange (to humans) back to front feet (the one thing her own shapechanging could never change) were twisted round, remade like a mortal woman’s.

This was the spell’s cost: It held only while as she bound her own power. So long as she did not use any magic beyond the small gift she had given Colette, speaking to animals, seeing through their eyes, feeling the world through their senses—theirs, never her own.

And this was the price _she_ demanded of the imp, knowing the spell served his ends, whatever those twisted ends might be: That the imp would watch over her forests while his spell lasted, while she bound herself to serve his purpose. 

And the imp would forget when Curupira finally walked away from Colette’s daughter, forget that Curupira had any part in this child or her mother, forget that she was anything but a mortal child.

It might have been unwise. But, Curupira was sometimes unwise, and it was not always in her nature to learn from experience. The pain in her heart was still raw and great. She recognized the power of knowledge and she would not give it to him, not over Colette’s child.

So, it was agreed. The spell was cast (every moment they wasted weakened the tie between her and Colette). But, there was one more thing needing to be done. For one more night, the imp’s illusion gave Curupira her own form. That was why, when Lord Maurice stumbled into the room, Curupira was waiting for him, looking like herself and not his wife.

She told him the truth, that his wife was dead. She also told him how she meant to take his wife’s place, to raise her child.

Not, she assured him, with a disgusted twist of her lip, that she meant to take Colette’s place in his bed (Curupira, who rarely thought about humans and their feelings, didn’t think about how Maurice might have taken it and how that could ruin everything. But, Maurice, still reeling from Colette’s loss, never noticed and would have been relieved if he did). He could take lovers if he wanted, she said, knowing these things sometimes mattered to humans. He could betroth himself to some other woman, for all she cared, promising to marry her on some far off day when his wife died. But, she would raise Colette’s child.

And, if he didn’t agree, she would take the girl and raise her where he would never find her. She knew Colette would prefer the child to know her father, but Curupira would not give her up.

Maurice (wisely or unwisely) agreed.

And, then, he forgot.

Memories faded throughout the castle . The midwife first thought that she had erred, mistaking weakness for death. Then, in the happiness of her lady’s recovery, she forgot that she had ever believed she’d died. The guards, the servants, every man, woman, and child forgot.

Other things went unnoticed. Maurice, if asked, would say his lady had been weakened since the birth. At the advice of many noted healers, they spent less time in each other’s embrace. But, that they _never_ knew each other as husband and wife? He would have scoffed at the idea. There was not a man or woman in the castle who wouldn’t have scoffed at the suggestion. Had anyone pressed the matter and had he given them an answer rather than the back of his hand for such rudeness, he would have been vague then shrugged it off as a trick of memory.

And perhaps he was right. Remembering or not, he dreamt of her often. Waking, felt her beside him, seemed to hear her voice advising and consoling him, though this grew weaker over the years.

The price of memory is memory. Curupira understood that. There was another price she knew she must pay. Or, perhaps, it was only the price she wanted to pay. She was immortal and, if not unchanging, changed with the same, patient speed of a mountain becoming a valley.

Pain and memory were the same thing. She knew what it would cost her when she finally let Colette go—when she finally let her child go. She had made a pearl once from her own heart’s blood. Now, she made another. Memory gathered in a small pendant round her neck, to be put aside when she was done with it.


End file.
